"Mademoiselle is not at home," said the servant. "Not at home! But I am dining with her, my friend." "Mademoiselle has been called away suddenly, and she has left a note for monsieur. Will monsieur give himself the trouble to come into the salon?" The note ran thus: "Dear Friend:--A thousand excuses! But the enclosed will explain. I felt that I must go--and go instantly. She might die before I arrived. Will you call early to-morrow? "Your grateful "Rosa" And this was the enclosure, written in French: "VILLA DES HORTENSIAS, "RUE THIERS, PANTIN, PARIS. "Mademoiselle:--I am dying. I have wronged you deeply, and I dare not die without your forgiveness. Prove to me that you have a great heart by coming to my bedside and telling me that you accept my repentance. The bearer will conduct you. "Carlotta Deschamps." "What time did mademoiselle leave?" I inquired. "Less than a quarter of an hour ago," was the reply. "Who brought the note to her?" "A man, monsieur. Mademoiselle accompanied him in a cab." With a velocity which must have startled the grave and leisurely servant, I precipitated myself out of the house and back into the fiacre, which happily had not gone away. I told the cabman to drive to my hotel at his best speed. To me Deschamps' letter was in the highest degree suspicious. Rosa, of course, with the simplicity of a heart incapable of any baseness, had accepted it in perfect faith. But I remembered the words of Yvette, uttered in all solemnity: "She is dangerous; you must take care." Further, I observed that the handwriting of this strange and dramatic missive was remarkably firm and regular for a dying woman, and that the composition showed a certain calculated effectiveness. I feared a lure. Instinctively I knew Deschamps to be one of those women who, driven by the goad of passionate feeling, will proceed to any length, content to postpone reflection till afterwards--when the irremediable has happened. By chance I was slightly acquainted with the remote and sinister suburb where lay the Villa des Hortensias. I knew that at night it possessed a peculiar reputation, and my surmise was that Rosa had been decoyed thither with some evil intent. Arrived at my hotel, I unearthed my revolver and put it in my pocket. Nothing might occur; on the other hand, everything might occur, and it was only prudent to be prepared. Dwelling on this thought, I also took the little jewelled dagger which Rosa had given to Sir Cyril Smart at the historic reception of my Cousin Sullivan's.